


nothing more than a minnow

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Ghosts, Haunting, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 17:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15954548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Raoul is dead. Christine is gone. And Erik is alone...or he should be.





	nothing more than a minnow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SegaBarrett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/gifts).



He will never have Christine’s love. That much is clear to him in her very kiss, the desperation in it. There is love there, yes. Love for the man he is threatening, not for him. He pushes her away and goes down to the boy and breaks his neck in one twist. It’s faster than a slow strangling, more merciful than the insolent boy deserves. The crack is quiet; Christine’s screams are louder.

He sets her loose near the entrance to the tunnels. She can find her way out. As for himself, he’ll hole up for a few days. If the police find him, he’ll fight or die—he hasn’t quite made up his mind yet but he won’t run. But he thinks it more likely they will wander in his tunnels for hours and days and eventually give up, and he will again be left alone. Very, very alone.

 

 

But at night he feels a presence in the darkness. He calls out, asking who it may be. Then he makes guesses. Nadir? Madame Giry? He bites back Christine’s name—no, it can’t be her, it will never be her again.

Whoever it is, there is no answer.

 

 

The police are more determined than he would have expected. Their boots are constantly tromping, with only the occasional break for rest. It has been a full day and they have not given up yet. Erik paces restlessly.

There is something else which bothers him beyond the police. It is the body, the body of the boy. It has disappeared.

He knows the boy was dead. After breaking the neck he held the body for a moment, pondering whether the action had been too rash as Christine screamed behind him. He felt the boy’s throat and its missing pulse, and later, when he returned, the body was slumped over face-down in the water. But it disappeared during the night; when he awoke it was not there. He does not know what may have happened to it. Someone must have taken it, surely. But who would come here, steal a body and leave? The police would have arrested him, and Nadir and Madame Giry would at least have yelled at him. Christine would have taken it and left, but he knows she will never return.

(If she did return, and took the body away without even saying hello, it rankles—is the boy worth more even in death?)

He searches the lair for it. It is nowhere, but he can find no trace of intrusion either. Perhaps he sleepwalked and got rid of it somehow. It wouldn’t be the first time he lost time.

 

 

The police stop marching after a few days. Erik was right. They have given up.

He feels abandoned.

 

 

He begins composing again. He no longer feels the rage which briefly flared up against Christine and against her lover. There is only sorrow, sorrow and emptiness. He plays in the minor key, notes winding and regretful. He tries to imagine a song that would convince Christine to come back, to remember her love for him, then remembers that she never loved him in the first place. Instead, his music is only mournful.

At night, he hears someone touching the keyboard, playing spare notes here and there, high and low, sometimes a discordant combination. He goes to look but finds no one there, and even his sheet music untouched. Later he dreams of violin music played by a beginner, not a master. He knows it to be a dream even though he thinks he is still awake, because who would come to his chamber in the dark only to play the violin?

He tries to compose a love song, and this time he starts with the lyrics. He tries to think of what he thinks of Christine. Instead, he finds himself writing down the words of her fiancé, which he over heard on the rooftop, promises of a life together, or protection and freedom. He cries. He imagines a hand touches his shoulder, but when he turns there is no one there.

 

 

There is splashing in the water sometimes, loud and clumsy. “Fish,” he tells himself, ignoring the fact that he’s lived here for years and there have never been any fish larger than minnows.

 

 

He starts walking through the passages of the opera house again, observing all that goes on. There is a distance between himself and the workers here that he never felt so strongly before. He has always felt distanced from normalcy, but now he feels distant from the living world itself. And yet, oddly, he does not feel as alone as he might.

He murmurs to himself as he watches Carlotta warm up in rehearsal. “Still a toad, isn’t she? I should have killed her instead of…”

you.

He doesn’t finish that sentence. He is not insane, not yet. There is no one there, he knows it.

A wisp of air touches his ear. He isn’t sure if it’s a laugh or a sigh.

The song he is working on does not have a title yet. He knows it will be very different from Don Juan. It is meant to be played on the organ, but he begins a line of accompaniment to be played on the violin.

 

 

The bed is cold at night. There is splashing in the water. He calls out, “Raoul?”

There is no answer. But the name, which Erik has never before spoken (always “the boy” or “the Vicomte” or “your lover”) feels right. He calls out again. “Raoul?”

There are footsteps on the dry land now, but they pause. Erik cannot see in the dark if anyone is there. He says, “You are lonely, aren’t you?”

Of course a dead man is lonely.

“I am lonely too.” He swallows. “If you want, you may join me.”

It is stupid to imagine a boy would find comfort in the company of his murderer. But the footsteps come closer, and Erik feels a gust of warmth come over his body, and settle on the other side of the bed like a lazy cat.


End file.
